I recently visited my pickleball friends in New Hampshire. Reconnecting with old friends, playing pickleball under a crisp October sky, followed by laughing over pizza and homemade cookies renewed and reaffirmed my sense of being alive. Our group, made up mostly of octogenarians, seemed to celebrate not only our friendship but the privilege of growing older together. Among us were friends who had beaten the odds and survived pancreatic cancer, a friend whose husband now lives in a memory care unit and a man who takes dozens of pills a day to keep himself going. Despite their challenges, each continues to find a way to keep life relatively in balance. We laughed, played, ate and enjoyed one another’s company. For those few hours, aging seemed less a burden than a shared adventure. Since that visit, I have kept wondering: What makes us keep going when we slowly lose friends, sometimes week after week? During a weekend walk on a nearby trail, my friend Deb confided in me, “Death, being there, is not what I am scared of, but getting there is what I am afraid of.” Her words have stayed